Frustrations
by pennydreddful
Summary: Completely plotless/useless Bones/Chekov drabbly oneshots. First chapter featuring Jim being Jim. M for language/possibly more in the future. Will ultimately be a bunch of drabbles of varying stages of McChekov.
1. Frustration

Bones' tongue snuck out between his pursed lips. Hunched awkwardly over the table to get his eyes level with the beaker grasped tight in his left hand. Cautiously raising the small vial in his right, he poised to tip it drop by drop into the beaker, murmuring words of encouragement to the vaccine he was trying to create in the same tone he might use with a child patient. Starting to turn his wrist, he inhaled carefully as the first drop reacted favorably and-

"Boooooooooones! Light of my life, fire of my loi-"

"God _FUCKING _dammerthgidtjim!" erupted Bones, his shouting muffled as he ripped his shirt off over his head, avoiding the vial's worth of acid that was starting to shred through it. Glancing wildly around him, he saw a stray drop or two had managed to get to his pants and with another roar of indistinguishable frustration, he hastily toed his boots off and shucked his pants, circling himself in the process.

Kirk emitted an irritating whistle as Bones rounded on him, hands on hips and looking formidable even in only his underwear. He set his crazy eyebrow on Jim but did a double take at the mass of floppy curls just visible over Kirk's shoulder.

Chekov's hasty swallow and clenched jaw weren't sufficient to disguise his wide eyes or the white knuckles bearing around the handle of his coffee mug. To his credit, he was present enough to keep it level as his eyes did another involuntary lap around the tall doctor's almost naked form. Chekov then felt a little cursed by his mind's compulsion to catalogue details; hipbones and shoulders like those refused to be remembered in anything but the clearest definition.

"I-Kirk," he swallowed the stammer into his accent, "will finish explaining later, I should get to the bridge," he said. Turning precisely on his heel, the door swished promptly behind him.

Kirk looked between the door and Bones with bright eyes, wearing the look of satisfaction that came over him when something went the way he desired without requiring his meddling.

"If you say a word, you're effectively volunteering yourself to be my first test subject," Bones threatened. "There better be a damn good reason for you to be here," he continued, gesturing to the faintly smoking pile of uniform between them.

"You _just_ said speaking would make me your test tribble, I can't answer that!" Jim protested, leaning back against the door panel.

Bones supplied a withering look that conveyed Jim wasn't getting out of this either way.

"I just wanted the pleasure of your company?" Jim attempted.

"Nope," Bones went behind his desk to find a spare uniform in one of the drawers. Years of being way too close to all sorts of unwanted substances had solidified the habit of having extra everything at hand. Years of service on the Enterprise put him in the habit of cultivating a reputation as taciturn to keep as many whiny ensigns out of his damn medbay as possible. Years of Kirk had, well, not resulted in any effective antidote to incidents like this except a far more adventurous range of motion for his right eyebrow. He unconsciously rubbed at his temple while he started to dress.

"Chekov wanted to pleasure Imeanthepleasure," he started again, backing down hastily after his friend grumbled something threatening. "Look at it like a field trip to the medbay. I was coming down here to make your day and he started going on like he does so I told him to walk with me. Simple."

Bones shook his head. "Too convenient, what else?" He pulled his shirt on and settled an expectant glare on his friend as he sat down.

"Nothing! Seriously, why would I try to acidify you just so an ensign could gain a lifetime's worth of frustration?" Jim asked.

Bones' face was a plain catalogue of about a thousand of Jim's previous schemes that would predict exactly that type of bullshit. He folded his hands before him on the desk. "Why," he started, trying to back off the irate tirade threatening to pour out, "would me avoiding a flesh consuming compound be at all 'frustrating'?" he air-quoted, his sarcastic prelude to a full out fit emerging.

Jim folded his arms again and leaned back against the door, giving a significant look and remaining silent. He then gave an exaggerated farewell wave and backed out of the room, grin increasing with every inch.

Bones looked at the now-sizzling and nearly consumed uniform and dropped his face against the desk.

After Alpha shift, Kirk made to stroll back to his quarters, rounding a corner carelessly and colliding with Chekov. The guy was light enough that he stopped short once he'd hit Kirk. Chekov breathed out an apology and righted his course, continuing something above a jog and below a run down the corridor. It wasn't unusual to see the Russian doing laps after his shift, but he was too fit and too exceptionally skinny to look so winded or have his curls cling to his skull like that. Yesterday he'd tossed a greeting to Kirk and been a little more adroit at avoiding obstacles. Kirk tilted his head, appraising that the receding form must have been at it for hours above his usual routine. He smirked a little, deducing that Chekov probably didn't take up some radical new exercise regime so suddenly.


	2. Sunlight

McCoy's suppressed chuckle relaxed into an easy, warm laugh that filled the room. "Takes some getting used to, Pasha," he murmured into the blonde curls halfheartedly trying to burrow into his chest. When he had opened his eyes to respond to the person skimming fingertips up his spine, he'd been perfectly in line with a slash of orange sunlight passing through the half-drawn blinds. Len had giggled at the rapidity of transition between the wide eyes of abrupt wakefulness and the desperate squint of too much light too soon but let the laughter come as freely as it always did around Pavel.

"…unnatural…" was the one word he could pick out in the mostly-Russian diatribe as Pavel untangled and re-tangled their limbs. He buried his face in the pillow, willing the light away. McCoy kindly pulled the comforter up to shield him from the offending rays and tilted his chin up from his hiding place.

"You've just been in the black too long," he murmured, giving him a light kiss. He didn't want to be too pushy this early. "Close your eyes," he said.

Pavel did as he was told and let Len roll him onto his back. "What's different is," he kept talking as he settled down next to him, hazel eyes tracking the man's upturned profile, "you can feel it when you're down here."

Pavel smiled unselfconsciously with his eyes still closed. "And, apparently, you're some sort of morning person down here," he observed. He could practically feel the eye roll and opened one eye to confirm it.

"I'm a you person most everywhere," Len replied. He concluded he'd said the right thing to make the photosensitive Russian appraise him with both bright blue eyes before pressing his mouth against Len's full lower lip. He inclined his neck to deepen it, but Pavel pulled back with narrowed eyes.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Mmm?" his palms had started to make their way around Pavel's back to draw him closer. "You're not an any-type-of-human person before coffee," he paused with a gasp as Len found the pulse point in his neck and tentatively laid the tip of his tongue against it. He didn't seem to be planning on saying much more, so Len simply smiled against him. He didn't have the heart to tell him it was already one in the afternoon in Georgia.


End file.
